


That Thing That You Do

by Asexuallaw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1800s AU, Ben!Watson, Blowjobs, Boob gropping, Cat/Human Hybrids, Catlock, Disobedient Sherlock, Domestic Bliss, Drug Use, F/F, Fawnlock, Fawnlock is a cutie, FemJohn, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Femlock, First Kiss, Gardener John, Inspired by ShootBadCabbies, Interspecies Romance, Inverse AU, Joan Watson - Freeform, John Holmes/Sherlock Watson, John Is A Fallen Star, John is annoyed but not angry, Johnlock - Freeform, Kid!Lock, Lesbians, M/M, Martin!Holmes, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Piratelock, Prince!lock, Rip John, Scotland Yard, Sherlock Holmes is The Doctor (Doctor Who), Sherlock is a lonely teenager, Sherlock is a tit, Sherlock is still a tit, Sherlock likes girl clothes, Star!John, Sweet Kisses, Teenlock, Wholock, Young John Watson, Young Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, balletlock, bit of angst, doctor who - Freeform, jammie dodgers, oneshots, pirate!John, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:23:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6810895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asexuallaw/pseuds/Asexuallaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Johnlock one shots to fill my fangirl needs</p><p>I will be adding tags as I go along</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Honeysuckle

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to post here daily

“Mycroft used to tell me about the bees that pollinated in our garden.”

“Yeah? Are they as fascinating as you?”

“Hardly. But he said they would come to my window every night and just flutter there, so I guess that's a bit fascinating.”

“Kind of weird.”

“I like bees, John. I like the bzz bzz noise they make.”

Sherlock Holmes stood up and rubbed the dirt off his knees. His best friend in the whole entire world did the same. Except he had on uniform trousers and grass stains were a bit hard to clean off, so John Watson would get fussed at by his mother later. The children had been poking around the Holmes' garden since they got to Sherlock's house. It was the youngers idea; he wanted to catch butterflies and analyze their eating patterns. John just thought the flowers were lovely.

“Petunias and snapdragons. Those over there must be crisanthema!”

“They're called chrysanthemum, John. Not that hard to say.”

“Maybe for you! You've got a whole dictionary in your head, haven't you, smarty pants?”

Sherlock looked over to John, who gave him a toothy smile. Except John was missing his front teeth so he just looked goofy. The younger laughed brightly.

“Let's stay friends forever, Sherlock.”

John came over and held Sherlock's hand, to which his friend looked down at and felt his cheeks flush.

“The best of friends?” He enquired.

“The very best! Our friendship will become the best known in all of London, even!”

“Well I highly doubt that.”

“You don't believe our friendship is strong enough?” John was only teasing of course but Sherlock still frowned.

“Of course I do! You're the only other child who finds interest in me and doesn't see me as a freak. I don't like that word, Mummy says it's a bad word. She yells at Mycroft every time he calls me it; he doesn't get any plum pudding after supper. I just give him mine, he's gonna get fat anyway.”

“You know why I like you Sherlock?”

The younger turned, the band aid on his nose was starting to become loose, he'd have to replace it. “Why?”

“Because you're different! I like different, and excitement. Because when we do our lessons in maths, you always get done before everyone else. Even Jim! Because when we play outside you're always looking for new species of bugs even though I've told you loads of times the only ones round the school are rollie pollies and ladybugs, worms and crickets. Because you're so interested in things other people find dull! You're fantastic, and you amaze me every day!”

The children were silent for a minute. Sherlock felt his young heart flutter in his chest and he sucked in a breath of agitated air, blowing curls of black out of his face.

“T-thank you...I...I like you too, John...you're always so nice when Sally and Philip bully me. Like a knight! And you're always interested in what I've got to say...sorry, I'm not as good with words as you.”

John was practically beaming. “No, Sherlock, that was nice! Thank you!”

“I love you lots, John.”

“Love you too!”

“...hey John?”

“Mm?”

“Is it weird for bestest friends to get married?”

“Course not! Let's get married one day, Sherlock!”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart!”

* * *

Sherlock Holmes looked in front of himself at the white and colorful chapel. Guests began pouring in for the wedding of Mary Morstan and John Hamish Watson. The best man put a hand to his heart and swallowed.

“Never expect someone to keep their promises.”


	2. Berries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, been busy with my Smaugbo ficlet

These won't do at all.

He knew the ones his human preferred; blackberries. These berries were poisonous, and dangerously the same color as the ones John liked.

Fawnlock threw them down in disgust and bolted through the bushes, his hooves thumping against the forest earth in aggravation. How was he going to please his human if he couldn't even find the proper berries? He was a pathetic mate.

The faun came to a stop in a clearing and sniffed the air. A crystal lake shimmered in the sunlight. He barely managed to pick up a scent, and followed it, splashing through the water and using mossy rocks as makeshift launching pads. At last he found the bushels of berries he had been searching all morning for. Fawnlock gathered some up in his hands and made his way back to the cabin.

* * *

John was still gone.

The gardener had left earlier to town. Something about needing certain things for the house. Fawnlock wasn't yet used to the living style of humans, but he needed to learn if he was going to keep one as a mate. The forest creatures soft hooves clicked against the wooden floor of the kitchen as he went to put the berries on the counter. No doubt John will be ecstatic when he sees the delicious treat! The thought made Fawnlock's tail perk up in excitement. He always treasured John's happiness above everything else. His human was the most important thing in his life. The faun made a bleat of joy and jumped to a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor. This is the space he occupied when John was away. Otherwise he'd be sleeping in his humans lap while he read the paper and enjoyed a cup of tea.

Fawnlock dug himself underneath one of the soft quilts, his horns making it difficult to truly get comfortable. He stared at the front door for what felt ages before letting out a bored groan and slumping against the floor. He hated waiting for John to get home. The man was always gone for so long doing God knows what. He told Fawnlock once about the friends he had in town but the faun hadn't bothered to indulge. He didn't care about Mike from the hospital or Sarah from the office. The only human he cared about was John. His John. No one else's. He huffed and rolled himself deeper into the soft confinement. He wished John was home.

* * *

Fawnlock's ears perked up at the sound of a key being stuck through a lock. The sound of a door opening. Footsteps. Keys being hung up. A coat being tossed aside. Boots being taken off. Feet. Tea pot. Faucet. Cabinet door. Pause.

John.

“Fawnlock?”

He bolted to the kitchen, a blanket still draped over his antlers. His mate looked to him with a smirk and decided to disregard the fabric.

“Are these for me?”

He held a berry in the palm of his hand. Fawnlock bleated and nodded, the blanket brushing his face. John chuckled and plopped the gift into his mouth.

“Mm, the ones I like. Did you have to go by the river to find them?”

Nod.

“How long did it take you?”

The faun thumped his hoof against the the floor one, two, three, four times. John's face displayed a look of concern as his gaze shifted to the wild fruit.

“Fawnlock...out all morning just to find me these? You didn't have to...”

He bleated in disapproval and rubbed his cheek on John's shoulder, careful to watch his horns. This was a sign of affection John was accustomed to. The gardener chuckled and stroked the side of Fawnlock's face.

“Well...thank you, Fawnlock. I appreciate it. How about I use the rest of these for some oatmeal?”

The clicks of approval were enough for John to start boiling water.


	3. What a Mouthful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret nothing

How did Ella expect him to keep a blog?

His schedule was always busy, not to mention the fact that he had a job while trying to maintain a dangerous life style. It was all so very posh, he just didn't have time to regularly update the blog that literally only his sister read. There were plenty of other ones that were more fascinating anyway. The Science of Deduction was a much better website, in his opinion.

Today, however, John was actually trying to update his blog. He had recently added The [Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/30amay) to his blog but due to financial excrements he had to take it down. The general public had expressed it as a shame. So he had to think of another adventure to put up, and had his hands hovered over the laptop keyboard. But there was a problem.

Honestly he was having a hard time concentrating because underneath the table Sherlock had his lips wrapped around his cock. A swift tongue ran across the tip of his pulsating erection, causing him to wonder exactly what was happening.

He had been given no warning of any kind. Sherlock had come into the sitting room, blue robe hanging off of his slender body. Obviously he had just gotten out of bed and hadn't bothered to run a brush through his hair. The pompus detective first went into the kitchen and done something, John didn't pay attention. When he came back, he quickly went to John's desk table, crouched on his knees, unbuckled John's pants and went at it. Granted John probably should've stopped him. No, he did try to stop him.

“Sherlock! What the  _hell_ are you doing-”

“Be quiet, John!”

John's face had twisted into some weird hybrid of surprise and pleasure as Sherlock's plump lips absolutely entranced his cock. His fist slammed down on the table and he tried to let his mind wander anywhere that wasn't his tit of a flat mate's mouth. But it didn't work. 

He had always been convinced that Sherlock was inexperienced when it came to sex, in fact he was very certain he was, but the way that tongue slid between his slit and went down to salivate all over his taught balls. It drove John crazy. He couldn't concentrate on this bloody blog. He couldn't concentrate on fucking anything.

”Christ, Sherlock!”

His hips bucked up accidentally, but Sherlock had a good gag reflex. Of course he did. The detective hummed against his prick, sending shivers across his entire body. John smacked his computer screen down and reached his hands under the table to grip onto dark brown curls. Sherlock smiled and pulled away with a pop, but then went back down with zero hesitation and nipped teasingly at the head, causing John to let out a low moan and slam his cock further in. He didn't have time to cry out in lust as he came in Sherlock's mouth, painting the roof with streaks of white. He groaned as his head slumped against the table and Sherlock stood up, swallowing the last bit of his cum and wiping the increments away with his finger and eating that too. John slowly lifted his head up and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

“It was an experiment.”

Obviously.


	4. Reach the Jam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried

How long had it been since he had had a good nights rest? More than a few days, he knew. John always loved keeping him awake with extraneous nonsense he could care less about. But he suffered through it because John was extraordinary.

The faint sound of a violin stirred Sherlock from his sleep. He raised his head up groggily from the saliva stained pillow and looked around the room as if something was out of place, which it wasn't. He rubbed his eyes wearily and threw the covers off. With a yawn, Sherlock got out of bed in search for a jumper that wasn't dirty. When he found a light purple one, he took his night shirt off and slipped it on, not bothering to change his trousers just yet.

All the while he listened to the sweet symphony of that beautiful tune. John was so good at playing that instrument, it made Sherlock wonder what sort of devil he had to make a deal with to acquire such talent. He laughed at the thought as Beethoven's Symphony No.5 filled his ears. Sherlock grabbed his mobile off the bedside table, stuffed it in his back pocket, and opened the bedroom door, down the hallway.

John stood by the window, like every morning, violin pressed against his neck and bow delicately drawing against silk strings. A long blue dressing gown hung off his body. It was far too big for him but he wore it anyway. Sherlock's warned him time and time again that he'll trip over his own feet, quite literally, but John continues to not take his advice.

“Did you sleep last night?” Sherlock asked. He already knew the answer.

“No.”

“I can tell...Christ, John, at least try to clean up after yourself.”

Sherlock made an involuntary groan as he entered the kitchen. He rubbed his temple and sighed, setting about cleaning John's mess, like always.

“Are these eyeballs?” He held up a bag. It was dripping on the table.

“For an experiment.”

What sort of experiment required fucking eyeballs of any kind? Sherlock didn't bother asking. He just set them back down on a sort of clean tray and continued cleaning with obvious annoyance. The music stopped and Sherlock heard silent steps making their way to the kitchen. John stood, leaning against the frame, his golden hair a mess. Sherlock snorted.

“Does the worlds only consulting detective not know what a brush is?”

“Dull.”

“Like everything else, I suppose.”

“Not everything,” John said, looking his flat mate up and down, his eyes full of obvious interest. Sherlock flushed and set a tube of blue something-or-other in the sink.

“You've got work today. Pity, I was hoping to take you out for lunch.”

“Sorry, John. But I'm trying to make a bit of cash for myself.”

“She's sleeping with a married man, you know.”

Sherlock hesitated and turned around. “Who's that?”

“Annette, the woman you're dating. Just thought you'd oughta know.”

Sherlock groaned. “Right, yeah, of course she is.”

John smirked and stalked over to the cabinets. He opened one up and reached his hand out to grab something, but it wasn't in his reach. He cursed under his breath and looked to Sherlock, who was still trying to decide how to break up with his girlfriend.

“Sherlock.”

“...yeah?”

“Come here.”

The doctor's eyebrow raised slowly and he complied, making his way over to John.

“What is it?”

“I can't reach the jam.”

“I thought we kept it in the fridge,” Sherlock said smugly. Their height difference was always an advantage to him, and he reached into the cabinet to pull out a jar of strawberry jam. John snatched it from him and tossed it onto the table.

“We do, but I need this jar for something else.”

“Right, yeah.”

“Don't you have a job to get to?”

“No, I'm calling in sick. Taking you for brunch.”

“Oh...” John paused at that and went off towards his bedroom.

“I'll get ready then.”

“Right, you do that.”


	5. Your Breasts are an Ocean

 

> _Get the milk._
> 
> _SH_

Joan always got the milk.

 

> _Don't forget the tampons, Joan._
> 
> _SH_

Joan always got the tampons.

And why not? It was most convenient since Tesco was on her way to and from work. Was she just being intolerant? No, her flat mate was the intolerable one. All she wanted was to have a nice night out with Sam, but paranoia was her downfall. She didn't trust Sherlock alone, by herself. Not when Mr. Hudson was out of the house. So Joan would go straight home after her shift and picking up necessities. While she stood in the middle of the store she contemplated an additional purchase and just thought, 'Fuck it,' and went to retrieve a tube of strawberry ice cream. It was her treat to herself. She's earned it.

When the cab pulled up to 221B and she paid, Joan began making her ascend upstairs. Walking through the front door of the flat she noticed Sherlock wasn't in her usual thinking spot on the couch and was about to call out when something grabbed her from behind. Someone had a firm grasp on both of her breasts.

“What the  _FUCK-_ ”

“Calm down, Joan, it's only me.”

“S-Sherlock! Let go of my boobs!”

“Did you know that continuously massaging your own or someone else's breasts every day can help prevent breast cancer.”

“That's very thoughtful of you but please let off! I've got the shopping.”

“Joan...I thought being in a relationship allowed me permission to grab your wonderful globes when I want.”

Joan paused. She swallowed briskly and put down the shopping, then her hands found themselves atop Sherlock's. Slowly she moved Sherlock's hands along with hers, both of them massaging and working her breasts.

“Like this, y-yeah..?”

Sherlock flushed deeply at Joan's actions and pulled her small girlfriend closer, breathing in the scent of evening London. Her fingers twitched and rubbed at the perky nipples through the thin fabric of Joan's work shirt. She moaned in response and threw her head back. Sherlock continued and one hand trailed down south and Joan quickly stopped her. She turned around and took Sherlock's perfect, gorgeous face in her hands and kissed her deeply, running a hand through long, dark brown locks.

“Let's go to the bedroom, yeah? My fingers have been twitching to see you all day.”

Sherlock's cheeks turned a rosy pink color and she nodded harshly, letting Joan take her to the bedroom to do whatever the hell she wanted with her.


	6. Femme Fatale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a flamboyant boy who enjoys girls clothes and ballet  
> John noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you ask, no Sherlock is not trans, gender queer, gender neutral, or agender  
> He just really likes wearing female clothing

The tights were...well, tight around the buttocks. The short skirt that swayed atop the fabric would pull back whenever he bent down. The crop top hung loosely over his shoulders, exposing neck and collar bone, which John very much wanted to bite.

He had never heard of a boy wanting to put on and walk around in female clothing. So Sherlock Holmes was a bit of a surprise to him. People had explained that the younger was just a freak, but John didn't think so. People had every right to wear what they wanted, regardless of gender. He imagined the boys parents approved because they let him out of the house like that.

Soon he found out that Sherlock had friends, albeit a few. Molly Hooper was his go to gal pal; they were always together and even shared clothes. Irene Adler was a nice enough girl, and a lot of people thought she and Sherlock were sleeping together but she was actually fooling around with Molly. The three of them were one of the quietest group of friends and people rarely bothered them. Except for Jim Moriarty and his friend (boyfriend?) Sebastian Moran. They teased Sherlock and once John even saw them try to grope at the other male but Irene threw them off and told them to back away. She was definitely the most intimidating.

John always thought about approaching Sherlock and talking to him, despite the warnings from Sally and Philip. What did they know? He wanted to get to know this fem boy a little better. So one day, John worked up enough courage to talk to him.

Sherlock wasn't interested. He made that very clear by blowing John off before the senior even got a word out, stalking away, flats clicking against the sidewalk and black skirt swaying back and forth. John sighed in defeat. He wasn't going to give up so easily.

A few weeks later and he found himself where he was right now. With knowledge of Sherlock being a ballet dancer, he went to go watch the other. When John entered the room, Sherlock barely paid attention to him (in fact John was quite sure his presence was made unaware by the other) and went about his stretches even as John made himself comfortable on a lone bench. The rugby player smiled as a radio switched on and the Nutcracker filled the room.

Sherlock was so elegant. The way his limbs moved in time to the music, and he almost seemed to float above the polished wood floor. As soon as the music stopped, Sherlock lifting his right leg into the air one last time, John clapped. The ballet dancer quickly shut off the radio and turned to look at the intruder.

“Hello!”

“What do you want?? Why are you in here?!”

“My name's John Watson, by the way! I already know yours though, Sherlock. No introduction needed. You're pretty good at dancing.”

Sherlock peered at him suspiciously and slowly walked over to John.

“It's more than just dancing. It's a form of art. I come here every day to escape the wretched society we live in, if only for just a little while.”

John smirked. “I'm touched. Look, I'm not gonna ask about the clothes, or the ballet thing. It's not my business. But there is a reason I came here.”

Sherlock's face distorted into scepticism. “Go on, spit it out.”

“I was wondering if you'd like to go on a date. I know a great malt shop not far from the school.”

Sherlock's eyes widened a bit and he began playing with a loose end of his skirt. “You want to...go out with me?”

“Sure! If you enjoy yourself this first time, maybe we can do it over and over until...well, guess we'll see.”

Sherlock bit his lip and giggled, reaching over to the side to grab his bag. He pulled out his phone to check the time.

“Well, John, if you want to take me there so badly make it quick.” He held up his phone; it displayed 7:30 PM. “I have a curfew, ” he teased, putting the mobile back in his pocket.

John laughed. “Oh don't worry, I'll make sure you're home safe. Come on.”

Sherlock complied and grabbed John's arm, the two of them leaving the theater and to their first date.


	7. All Your Dreams Will Come True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't know anything about injecting oneself with crack or any other sort of drug, and I didn't bother researching it, so bare with me

The room became more of a mess as an empty cigarette box found itself just missing the trash bin in a fit of rage.

Sherlock threw himself on his bed and groaned. He was out. Again. He couldn't keep borrowing money from Mycroft, because then the other would get suspicious. So far he's been fibbing with stories of needing certain things for experiments, but it was always the cigarettes.

Seventeen years old and he had yet to get a job.

Though, he knew as soon as he'd get hired, he'd lose the job almost immediately so what was the point right?

Whatever, it wasn't like he needed the cigarettes. The only time he smoked them was when he was stressed over finals or projects due in chemistry. Today he had sought the small cancer stick after flunking a very important paper in fifth period, only to be greatly disappointed. Sherlock turned over in bed and huffed, legs curling against his chest.

That's when he remembered.

Underneath his bed, in a small wooden box...Sherlock leapt up and quickly stuck his hand under the bed, desperately feeling around for-aha! There it is. He pulled it out and opened it.

It was all still there. The syringe, the little glass bottle, the alcohol. Sherlock's eyes glistened and he quickly made sure his bedroom door was locked before climbing back onto his bed and grasping the syringe with delicate fingers.

He smiled to himself.

It's been a while.

Once the syringe was filled he sat the box aside and put the needle tip at one of his visible veins. Slowly he pushed down on the plunger and let the wonderful drug flow through him.

* * *

 

It must have been hours before he woke from his spell. While he was knocked out he went into a usual fit of incoherent mumbling, and found himself desperately clawing at the sides of his head. At one point he had crawled over to the window, tears streaming down his cheeks, and called for help. Though his voice was cracked. The stars shined beautifully in the night sky, but they were no help.

Sherlock scratched at his arms, even though they didn't itch, and stood up from the window, only to fall flat on his face. He groaned in pain, nausea finally kicking in. He barely registered the soft chuckling from behind him.

“Looks like you could use some help.”

Sherlock's head immediately shot up and he turned around, but saw no one. He must have still been suffering from after effects.

“I'm going crazy, how nice.”

“Who said anything about that?”

Sherlock cried out and jumped back, landing harshly on his bottom. He looked up and saw someone was standing over him. The boy was a bit older than him, with short blond hair that almost seemed to glow, and matching hair and skin. Whoever he was, he sure was attractive. Traveling further down Sherlock saw that he wasn't wearing any clothes. The teen blushed profusely and quickly stood up, wavering a bit. The other boy held out his arms and grasped Sherlock on either side.

“Woah, now. You should learn to be more careful.”

“And you-” Sherlock snapped, his words sluggish. “Should learn that trespassing is a felony and you're breaking into someone's home, naked of all things! Why...why are you nude?”

The boy seemed confused at first, then laughed heartily. Was he mocking Sherlock?!

“That's because I don't have any clothes. I've only been a Fallen for a little bit.”

Sherlock blinked. “Fallen?”

The boy pointed out the window. “A fallen star. I heard your voice, and knew you were my Wisher!”

“Are you on drugs?”

“No, but you are. That's why I'm here.”

“I don't...I don't understand. I don't like not understanding.” He sat down on his bed and ran a hand through brown curls. Then he looked back up at the boy. “How can you be a star?”

“Just as easily as you can be a human! Stars are created for decorating the night sky, so you humans can have something to look at when you're sad, or be under when you make vows. Certain stars, like myself, however, are made for Wishers. The people who think their lives are meaningless. People like you. Sherlock Holmes, you are my Wisher!” The boy beamed, sitting down next to Sherlock on the bed.

“I don't even know your name.”

“Hm...John. Yeah, that's a good name. John Watson. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Same here...but wait, I never wished...”

But he did. When he was shot up on crack and drooling on the floor.

“So someone did hear me...”

John laughed. “Somone's always listening, Sherlock. I've been waiting millions of years to find you, and now that I have, I'm ecstatic! We can finally be together...” A hand carefully lay upon Sherlock's cheek. He looked at John curiously, his eyes sparkling. “A Fallen and his Wisher.”

Their lips met. Sherlock's first kiss. Sherlock's first sign of affection from someone who wasn't his mother. He moaned against John's mouth and guided him down onto the bed, the kiss never breaking. John's hands trailed down his body, caressing his shoulders and hips. Those glowing lips found Sherlock's neck, and a bright tongue ran across the perspirating skin.

“Ah, John...my family's...home.”

“I'll be quiet then.”

Sherlock nodded silently and threw his head back. He didn't need to ask himself if it was alright. He believed John. He should've from the start. The glowing body, and trail of dust left behind proved it. This was his star. And he was his Wisher.

And they were going to live happily ever after.


	8. Last Warning

Would John notice?

More than likely, he was a very observant man. But he just couldn't help himself.

The curtains had begged to be scratched.

And now they lay in a messy heap on the floor, while a very disobedient cat licked away at his paws jadedly. Really, it was John's own fault. Sherlock said he wanted the green ones but John got the red ones. He got the wrong ones.

Now they had no curtains.

He could hear loud footsteps coming up the stairs.

John.

Sherlock stretched absentmindedly and yawned, tongue rolling out of his mouth and jaw snapping shut. He picked himself up off the couch and sulked to the kitchen; one of the perks of being a cat-human hybrid, he could do stuff he wouldn't be able to do as an ordinary house cat or an ordinary man. He was extremely flexible, proving this at certain crime scenes by squeezing into tight spaces and leaping over John's head. He was normally swatted on the nose for that latter one. His senses were far superior than that of anyone else, even other cat-humans like his brother Mycroft and that bothersome yarder Sally Donovan. Sherlock's help was always sought by Scotland Yard because he was so damn good.

“Sherlock!”

But that was a bit not good.

His head turned a full ninety degrees and he looked to John, who stood in the kitchen door way with his hands on his hips and obvious annoyance painting his face.

“The curtains.”

“I've told you to get me a scratching post, John. It would guarantee the safety of your precious household normalcies.”

John groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. _'Stressed',_ Sherlock deduced. _'Extra work at the office, most likely. Some girl he's not interested in gave him his number.'_ A slip of paper peeked out of John's coat pocket and the cat smirked.

“Look, even if I did buy you a post, you wouldn't use it. You'd continue to scratch up the furniture because you know it bothers me. But this is my  _last_ and  _final_ warning, Sherlock. Tear something else up and I'll clip your nails in your sleep.”

Sherlock clutched at his claws worriedly, as if John would do it right then and there. He tried to muster a mewl of apology, but John just ignored him and went about putting away the shopping. The cat sighed in defeat and returned to his normal façade of not caring, dragging himself over to the counter John occupied. His tail swayed left and right agitatedly, and he made a sort of confused mewing noise. John looked at him skeptically, a jar of honey in hand.

“What?”

“Does this mean I have to sleep in my room again?”

John's face slipped into a look of sorrow and he brought a hand up to rub at the top of Sherlock's head, all the while the hybrid purring affectionately at the contact. 

“Don't be daft, of course not. Every time we have a little spit you ask this. You're my cat. You could burn down London Bridge and I'd still let you sleep with me.”

Sherlock smiled, an obvious blush peeking at his cheeks. “Both ways?”

John smirked and gripped the cat's tail suddenly, causing the other to moan in surprise. He bit his lip and purred enthusiastically.

“Oh definitely. ”


	9. Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am not fluent in pirate

_“What arr we t'do, Cap'ain Watson? Holmes ain't wantin' t'cooperate!”_

_“Aye, wouldn't expect the land lubber to, would ya? We be taken ourselves a hostage! Until Mr. Holmes here commits t'our terms. Avast, me crew! Take that pretty one over there, next to th'winder. Let us make haste!”_

_Cheers of victory echoed through the hall. What was happening? Where was Mycroft? Surely the older wasn't too far away...who were these strange men?_   ' _No!_ _Get away, don't! Leave me alone!_ '

Someone screamed. He woke with a start, almost avoiding the table he had been thrown under, and realized the scream had come from him. Sherlock groaned in pain and clutched at the sore spot on his forehead. Where was he? Looking around, he didn't have much light, so it was impossible to scan his surroundings.

The last thing he remembered was eating breakfast in the dining hall with Mycroft, and then these unsanitary looking men barged in demanding money. Sherlock almost hit himself when realization swept over. The men had been pirates! And that brought back the question of where he was. Nowhere he recognized. Judging by the swaying of the floor beneath him, he guessed a ship. Standing up and letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, he finally saw the clutter of the room. So a pirate ship. Wonderful.

That was exactly what he needed right now. To be kidnapped and stored away in the ruckess of a disgusting crew of sea vermon. Oh he had half a mind to stomp up to the deck and mouth the captain. He imagined an old man with grey teeth, little to no hair, with his belly spilling out of his greasy blouse. And the crew would be no better, with rotted mouths and glass eyes, perverted characteristics and the worst hygiene ever.

Sherlock cursed under his breath and navigated himself through the clutter, almost falling countless times. Finally he managed to crawl to what appeared to be a set of wooden doors, with a small ladder leaning against it. He climbed up them and used the strength he had to push open the doors, filling his lungs with fresh air. A sigh of relief brushed passed his lips.

The bliss did not last long. A set of rough hands grabbed him suddenly by the shoulders and Sherlock cried out, thrashing and kicking at whaever had gotten him.

“Oi, be still ye nasty thing!”

“Unhand me at once, you vile, repulant, revolting-”

“Yeah, I've been called worse. Now shut yer caper like a good lil princess and keep up. Cap'ain's been waitin' ta see ye all day.”

Sherlock huffed and looked bitterly at the pirate. He wasn't extremely disgusting to look at. He didn't have much facial hair, but the grey hair poking from under his cap showed years of sailing across the sea. And now that he saw...the rest of the crew wasn't as stomach-churning as he had imagined. There were even a few women, admittedly beautiful in appearance. Sherlock just hoped they weren't aiming for a commitment from him. Back in London, that's what all the girls, and their families, seemed to want. A chance for a spot in the royal family. Whatever.

When they got to what Sherlock could only assume was the captains quarters, the older pirate didn't even bother knocking before going in, which Sherlock thought was a bit rude. But then again he was amongst scavengers.

The room was lit by various candles scattered about, illuminating dark shawdows onto the walls and other surfaces. A man, most likely the captain, stood at a table positioned in the middle of the room, his eyes focused on a map of what looked like a majority of Europe.

“Cap'ain Watson.”

The man looked up and Sherlock almost fell on his back. This...captain Watson, wasn't exactly the pirate type. Sure, he wore the right breeches and Monmouth cap. He had the right shade of scruff, and a sunken look in his deep hazel eyes. But this Watson was just, young. And quite gorgeous. 

“Oh I see our little hostage finally be with us.”

Sherlock's cheeks flushed a deep red that went straight to his crotch. Good God that voice, it was like marmalade drizzling over sand paper. He attempted to mask his obvious and sudden arousal with anger.

“Why have you taken me? Surely not for random pleasure. Pigs like you always have reason for taking the things they hoard. So why?!”

Captain Watson chuckled; it was deep and baritoned, and didn't help fix the problem in Sherlock's pants. “My, aren't we a feisty one?” He removed the cap, revealing messy blond hair that Sherlock so desperately wanted to run his hands through.

What on Earth was wrong with him? Was he actually falling for a pirate?

“Take yer leave, Lestrade. And tell Anderson to swab the deck with his toothbrush! He deserves it after scratching my best boots. Off with ye!” Lestrade gave an 'Aye aye' and left, leaving Sherlock alone with a pirate captain. Light blue eyes peered over to the man, who gave a simple smile and pointed to a chair.

“Sit. You've got questions.”

“The hell I do!”

The brunette slumped into the provided seat and slammed his hands onto the table, knocking down a thankfully closed bottle of ink. Captain Watson watched it roll off the table before laughing, and making himself comfortable in his own seat. He stretched his legs out on the table and a silence filled the room for what felt ages.

“Go on, then, lassie.”

“I'll ask again, why me? Out of all the England royalties, why kidnap the youngest male relative of the Holmes estate?”

The captain was quiet for a bit, then leaned across the table to grab a glass half filled with whiskey. He took a small sip from it and sighed, smacking his lips together. 

“Yer brother, the fat cow Mycroft. He owes us a favor and has reached well past his deadline.”

Sherlock laughed harshly. “Really? Mycroft, my brother, consulting with pirates? He must've been truly desperate.”

“It's not yer concern. Just, financial stabilities is all. We're keepin yer pretty face til he caves in, an ye better hope it's sooner rather than later.”

Sherlock blushed. He has really sunk low. But this Captain was far more attractive than any male or female he had met or been acquainted with back home. He hated admitting it but, he was extremely smitten with this pirate and his kind words.

“In any case, ye best be learnin real fast that I don't appreciate people muckin and makin a fuss board my ship. Ye step a single toe outta line and I'll strip ye of yer clothin and throw ye overboard, got it?”

Sherlock nodded diligently and watched with careful eyes as the captain stood up, making his way over to Sherlock with gentle steps. He put a hand to the prince's cheek and Sherlock was taken aback by how soft it was.

“Or...I could bend ya over my desk and teach ya a lesson or two?”

Sherlock's mouth gaped open and his entire face lit up. Captain Watson only smirked, and grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his shirt, pushing him down onto the table behind them. Teasing fingers trailed down his abdomen and groin, stopping to tightly grip Sherlock's erection. The other moaned, throwing his head back onto the wood surface.

“Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”


	10. All of Time and Space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally updating!

“I don't know how you can manage all these patients, John!”

“You've got another one with the flu, John.”

“Congrats on not getting any throw up on you during the process, John.”

“Hey John, wanna go get a couple of beers?”

“John, I was wondering if you were free tonight?”

“John-”

“John!’

“John?”

At one point, one would really get sick and tired of hearing their own name being blabbered out all day every day by everyone. But John Watson just had to live with it. His job was to help the sick and injured, not lose his temper over his own name.

Though he would have been lying to himself if he didn't admit that once he got back to his small flat and took off his coat and shoes, then threw himself onto his sofa, he was so glad to be alone. His muscles were aching and screaming, and the soles of his feet throbbed from walking all day. His leg wasn't helping much either. Ella said the limp was psychosomatic, and he was beginning to believe her.

A good cup of tea sounded pleasing right then, so John used the rest of his strength to get up and drag himself to the kitchen. When he was in he pulled a mug from the dish rack, got out the tea bags, put on the kettle, and sat out the milk. He yawned, thinking about his warm bed and how he very much needed a bath.

When he had his cuppa, John limped back to the living room and was about to sit down and watch crap telly for about two hours before a knock came at the door. He looked at the handle curiously. There was someone...at the door. Landlord? He paid his monthly rent, what did that bugger want?

John approached the door, mug still in hand, and cautiously grabbed the knob. He had no idea who'd be out there, it was a late hour and it could be someone dangerous. His flat wasn't exactly in the safest part of London. John gulped, not bothering to look through the peep hole, and opened the door.

“Oh hello!”

A man. A tall man, with high cheekbones and dark brown hair that curled around his forehead, with light blue eyes and a long black trench coat and a blue scarf wrapped around his neck. A strange man, at his door. At ten o'clock in the evening.

“Um, can I help you?”

“Well I should hope so,” the man said, pushing his way in past John, who was very much confused and a bit ticked that some stranger had just invited himself into his flat. “I'm looking for someone, someone specific. But also very, very special.”

“I don't know how I could possibly help you, but I don't appreciate people barging into my home without my consent. Now leave!” John shook the door and pointed outside. 

“But you can help me! I've been looking everywhere, every country, every city, every planet even. But I'm always drawn here, to Earth. I do love the human race. I got this scarf here, y'know-” 

“Sorry, are you some sort of nutter?!”

The strange man blinked, and then laughed,  ** _laughed_** , and John became very cross.

“Look, I have every right to call the police on you. So if you don't want to spend the night in jail, I suggest you either leave or tell me who you are and what you want!”

“Well that's not a very hard choice, is it. I've been in the jails here, security is childs play. So, the latter is my decision. I'm the Doctor, and I'm looking for a companion.”

John blinked. Then he closed the door, and leaned against the wall. Now he was intrigued. “Doctor Who?”

“Just the Doctor, though some of my friends call me Sherlock so you can use that if you'd like. I see I'm not the only doctor in here, judging by your tan that stops at the wrist. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing, so an army doctor. Your medical degree hanging up over there tells me you were invalided home from Afghanistan and have been for about two years. You've got a psychosomatic limp, which I could fix, and you don't get along with your family. Why else would a retired army doctor be living in a dump like this? You're single, given the dishes in the sink are enough for one person to eat three times a day. There's also the five o'clock shadow, so you don't shave for anyone, and the fact that you really need to cut your bangs, so you don't need to make yourself presentable to anyone. So, a single, retired army doctor who doesn't get off with his family and basically lives a boring life. You'll do!”

“...that was amazing.”

Sherlock paused. “You think so?”

“Of course, it was extraordinary. Quite...extraordinary. ”

“That's not what people usually say.”

“Well what do people usually say?”

“Piss off.” 

“Yeah, I can see why that little trick would make people upset,” John said, taking a sip from his mug.

“It's not like a magic trick. It's just observation. Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Sherlock was now running about his flat, opening cabinets and drawers, pulling out pens and paper. He picked up John's laptop and turned it over once in his hand, then sat it back down. He made his way to the small kitchen, John hot on his trail.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Sorry, have you got any Jammie dodgers? I'm in quite the mood for some-ah, yes!”

He had opened up a cabinet and found what he was looking for. Sherlock pulled back the already opened plastic and took a cookie in hand, then ate it in one bite. Once he chewed and swallowed, he put a few into his pocket and put the package back into the cabinet.

“What did you mean when you said I'll do?” John asked. The Doctor, Sherlock, grinned and walked over, putting his hands on John's shoulder.

“I mean, you'll be the perfect companion!”

“Uh, no, I'm not being the companion of some psycho I just met. How do I know you're not some serial killer or something?”

Sherlock licked over his lips. “I can prove it. Prove I'm not some common stranger!” He ran to the front door and opened it, stepping halfway through the threshold. He looked back to John, who still stood flabbergasted. He held out his hand. “Come on, then.”

The army doctor sighed and rolled his eyes, making his way over to the Doctor. And there it was. Outside of his flat. A blue, wooden police box. That was not there before.

“What's a police box doin' outside my flat?”

“It's mine! And it's not just some common police box, oh no,” He reached inside one of his pockets and pulled out a key. He stuck it in the lock, turned it, and opened the door. “It's a space ship!”

John peered inside it, a bit taken aback by the whole space ship nonsense, and immediately backed away. That wasn't...possible. Sherlock noticed the look on his face and smiled.

“Go on, I love it when people say that!”

“It's...bigger on the inside!”

“Isn't it? It's my TARDIS, that's Time. And. Relevant. Dimension. In-hey where are you going?”

John ran back inside, away from the ungodly thing, and looked at Sherlock in horror.

“How is that possible?!”

“Well, like I said, it's a space ship.”

“And you're...”

“An alien, yes. From Gallifrey. I've also got two hearts. And this isn't just a space ship, it's a time machine too.”

“And you think I'll just muck about all over the place with you in that thing?”

“Why not?”

“I've got a life! A job!”

“Oh, trust me, this is much more fun!” Sherlock's tone was promising, and John looked at him skeptically.

“...that ship, it can go anywhere?”

“Anywhere in the universe, any time or place! All you have to do is ask.”

“...you don't even know my name.”

“Okay then, what's your name?”

“John. John Watson.”

“Well, John Watson,” Sherlock stuck his hand out again, balancing himself by holding onto the side of the TARDIS. “Won't you travel with me?”

John hesitated. He shouldn't be considering this. He enjoyed working at the hospital, and seeing his family when he could! Okay, that was definitely a lie. But he couldn't just drop his entire life down the toilet and go travel across the galaxy with someone he had just met! ...could he? John bit his lip and, making up his mind, closed the door to his flat and grabbed the Doctor's hand.

The beginning of something new.


End file.
